


Simple Therapy

by EatPieKillDemons



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Wings, Cas and Sammy are Dean Winchester's only weaknesses, Confused Castiel (Supernatural), Cute Castiel (Supernatural), Cute Dean Winchester, Cute Sam Winchester, Dean is the puppy eyes' and the head tilt's bitch, Featuring the Castiel Head Tilt, Flashbacks, Fluff, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hair Braiding, Happy Sam Winchester, Innocent Castiel (Supernatural), Long Hair, My First Work in This Fandom, Pillow Fights, Possibly Pre-Slash, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Has Puppy Dog Eyes, Soft Dean Winchester, Sweet Dean Winchester, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Sam Winchester, and sometimes he uses them without knowing it, how is Dean supposed to say no to that?, sometimes he uses them for evil, the author shamelessly calls the boys beautiful, this is too many tags for such a short work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 06:41:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19267882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EatPieKillDemons/pseuds/EatPieKillDemons
Summary: Sam is touch-starved. Everyone is cute. I regret nothing; set early in the seasons after Castiel’s introduction.The boys don’t have as many worry lines in this fic as they do the last time you saw them.





	Simple Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> This is Gen, although it's written by a girl in love with all three of them. Read it as you please ;)  
> Leave kudos and/or comments! They warm my cold, dead heart like nothing else, excluding fluff and Supernatural and especially the two combined. Give me something to work with, or on!  
> UPDATE: Upon reading this, my little sister agreed with me that someone should draw the last paragraph. I can't draw for shit, but if anyone who can ever does or wants to, PLEASE share it with me!! I'd love to see it outside of my head!

Castiel was confused. Again. It was the simplest things that made the angel pause and do his patented little question-mark expression—narrowing his pretty blue eyes, frowning ever so slightly, and tilting his head to the side in that adorable way of his. Then of course he asked his curious, innocent, perplexed little questions about the everyday life humans lived, and the Winchesters were more than willing to answer each and every one of them.

Today, the subject of confusion was Sam’s conditioner. 

“I don’t understand,” Castiel monotoned. “What is its purpose?” 

“You use it after the shampoo when you’re showering. Softens your hair, gives it a really healthy glow,” Sam said. 

Castiel squinted and read the back of the bottle. “That is exactly what it says.” 

Sam smiled. 

“How does it do that?” 

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know the science behind it. I’m just a humble demon-hunter.” 

“I’m a humble demon-hunter and I know how the magic of Sammy’s conditioner works,” Dean interjected. He pointedly ignored Sam’s raised eyebrow at the word ‘humble’. 

“Magic?” Castiel frowned at the bottle warily now. 

“The conditioner reaches down into the victim’s brain and draws out all the girly, high-maintenance qualities, which then manifest as a silky, shiny mane.” 

Castiel’s frown deepened. “That does not sound very scientific.” 

“It’s true. Samantha here has the healthiest glow of any demon-hunter I’ve ever seen. The other hunters go green with envy when Sammy ‘Rapunzel’ Winchester shows up.” 

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam retorted, rolling his eyes. 

Dean ignored him again. “Soft as a genuine angel-feather pillow, Cas. He even takes vitamins for it, sings it a lullaby before he goes to sleep—” 

Dean was distracted then by the featherless motel pillow which smacked him in the jaw, and Sam’s sleek magical hair was thoroughly mussed when the same pillow returned with a vengeance and Dean gave him a noogie. 

Castiel was silent, staying carefully out of the way of the civil war on the other queen-sized bed. He understood that Dean was teasing Sam about how soft his little brother’s hair really was, but now he was curious about Dean’s specific comparison. 

“Hey.” He selected a fat, overstuffed pillow that had fallen to the floor and then slammed it into Sam’s back to get his attention. Sam yelped, startled, and then looked betrayed when he assumed that Castiel had chosen Dean’s side; Dean laughed triumphantly, and Castiel bashed Dean over the head with it too, just for fun. Then he dropped his weapon and turned his palms out towards the boys in a gesture for peace. “Truce?” 

The brothers exchanged cautious glances and lowered their pillows simultaneously, gradually, as tense as if the pillows were grenades. “Truce,” Sam agreed. 

“Can I touch it?” 

That caught them unawares. Dean tossed his hands into the air recklessly. “Okay, I’ll bite, Cassie. Touch what?” 

“Sam’s hair.” Castiel’s expression was beyond cute—it wasn’t even the question-mark expression, it was such an earnest desire just to touch Sam’s hair that Dean immediately replied, “Sure, Cas, anything you want.” 

Sam frowned at his older brother, who still seemed mesmerized with the longing to give Castiel his wish. He wondered briefly if that was something angels did—hypnotize lesser life forms into doing whatever they pleased by tilting their angelic heads one way or another and being in general precious. He had to admit that it affected him too, probably as deeply as Dean, but it was Sam’s hair and Cas did have a track record of accidentally destroying some of the human things the boys had set into his hands. “Why?” 

The eager, honest expression stayed on Cas’s face, but then a blush decorated it. Dean nearly drooled; he turned on Sam fiercely, gripping his fore-arm, desperate to let Castiel touch his brother’s hair now. If the angel accidentally burned it off, it could always grow back. 

“I want to know if what Dean said was true. If…” His low, rumbling voice hesitated; Castiel blushed harder. Sam melted. “If Sam’s hair is as soft as angels’ feathers.” 

“Of course,” Dean said. “I mean, I've never touched an angel feather, I was just exaggerating to remind Sammy how much of a chick he is, but I guess we have a way to test the theory, don’t we?” 

Castiel’s lips tilted into a frown that teetered on the very edge of being a pout. “You tease too often, Dean. I don’t understand human stuff. I never know whether you’re being funny or honest.” Angels were not above manipulation if the end result was touching Sam’s soft hair, which neither of the boys were aware of. 

“Honest!” Dean said quickly. “Here—try it.” He grabbed Sam’s face and pulled him in front of Castiel, smiling as he offered the sacrifice. Sam didn’t move, but despite his cheeks being smushed between Dean’s hands, his eyes were murderous. Dean ignored him yet again, still smiling helpfully at their angel. 

Cas wasted no time in reaching out to run his fingers through Sam’s chestnut-brown hair. Both his and Sam’s eyes fluttered shut at the sensation; Castiel looked deep in concentration, while Sam just looked blissed out. Dean released him and then sat watching beside him, gaze flickering from one face to the other. Suddenly he wanted to plunge his hands into Sam’s hair too, feel the silky, shiny strands for himself; more than anything, he wanted to be the one putting that calm, relaxed, effortlessly content look on Sammy. He was reminded briefly of when they were kids, alone in a motel room with Dad hunting who-knows-what in who-knows-where. Dean would check the salt-lines twice, load the gun under his pillow, position the iron and silver knives on the bedside table so they could be in-hand before he was even reasonably awake. That made him feel safe; then he set to work making Sammy feel safe. Ever since Sam had read their dad’s journal, he had been anxious, jumpy, hyperaware and hypersensitive to sounds and lights outside the motel door, waiting for the monsters he’d found out were real—which, ironically, were all in his head—to come get him. What Dean heard peripherally as the ice-machine down the hall dropping new ice, Sam heard as a wicked creature knocking things over on the path to their room. The neighboring room arguing and kicking furniture was something trying to break through their wall. The drawn-out revving of a motorcycle on the nearby highway was the growl of a monster right beneath the bed. The only thing Dean could think to do to prevent Sammy hyperventilating or having a panic attack was to tuck his little brother in at his side, cradle his head to his shoulder, whisper quiet promises of safety—“It’s okay, Sammy, nothing can get us in here, you’re safe, Dad’s taking care of those monsters right now, I’m here with you to keep you safe in the meantime, okay? I’m not going anywhere”—or sometimes singing softly in his ear; and always, always stroking Sam’s hair slowly and soothingly like he could remember Mom doing for him. Sam’s hair had been soft back then, for whatever reason; Dean wondered if it still was. 

Castiel pulled his hand from Sam’s hair and broke Dean from his reverie. Sam’s eyes blinked open, and Dean thought he was just as cute as ever: a small smile softening his little brother’s normally angular features, hazel eyes sleepily half-lidded, his hair fluffed into a golden-brown halo around his face. He certainly was beautiful. 

Castiel met Dean’s smiling green eyes. “Your brother thinks you are a beautiful chick,” he reported seriously. Dean choked, and Sam burst out laughing. Dean could have punted Castiel back to Heaven for that, because one, it was none of their business if he held a private chick-flick in his head, and two, the angel had just ruined it. 

“Why don’t you just tell us which is softer, the angel or the chick,” Dean huffed. 

"Maybe it's Dean's heart," Sam teased, grinning when Dean flipped him off. 

“I’m not sure…one moment,” Castiel replied, and then he was gone. The boys were hardly surprised. Castiel’s love of dramatic, sudden entrances and exits was— 

“I’m back,” the angel announced. Both brothers jumped. “Feel these.” He held out a handful of long white feathers. 

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Whose are these?” 

“Mine. Obviously. You don’t just steal another angel’s feathers from his wings, Dean.” 

“Of course. Forgive me, I’m not quite up on angel etiquette.” 

“And you never will be. Your human mind is too simple to grasp it.” 

Sam interrupted before Dean could get on the defensive. “Did you have to yank those out?” 

Castiel nodded. “This few in number won’t affect my wings’ functionality.” 

Dean frowned. “Didn’t it hurt?” 

“No. I imagine the sensation is similar to that of pulling out one of your own hairs.” Without warning, Cas snatched a couple right out of Dean’s scalp. Dean yelped, then scooted closer to Sam, leaning away from the angel and glaring reproachfully. Castiel amended his statement. “Never mind. It hurts less than that.” 

Then he offered his handful of feathers for them to touch. Dean was still grumbling, accusation and suspicion in his eyes; Sam rolled his and took one of the gorgeous white things between his thumb and index finger, twirling it delicately. “This is what your wings really look like?” he asked, entranced. Cas nodded again, and Sam murmured, “Beautiful.” 

Castiel blushed. 

Dean’s curiosity was piqued. He stretched out his hand and selected the longest feather, inspecting it closely. It was a pure, perfect white, sleek and graceful, and despite knowing that seeing an angel’s true form directly was detrimental to one’s mortal self, he wished for a glimpse of that Castiel—larger than life, glorious, a terrible and flawless creation of God. What he had witnessed of Castiel, an Angel of the Lord freed from his vessel, had been breathtaking and, frankly, terrifying. The mere shadows of his wings, vast, mighty, spread wide in a sixty-foot span behind his invincible being, had been one of the more alarming moments in Dean’s life. Had the angel not introduced himself otherwise, Dean would definitely have thought that Cas was God or Lucifer; then he would have started praying for his life. 

So why were these feathers the softest things in the whole universe? 

Dean worded his disbelief. Sam was still petting the feather he held like it was a kitten. It was as soft as one. Softer. As soft as—definitely the softest thing he’d ever felt. “There’s no comparison,” he agreed. 

Castiel’s blush became more pronounced at all the attention. 

“What about angel hair?” Dean suggested. 

Sam and Dean reached across to the other bed simultaneously and patted Castiel’s hair judgmentally. Castiel was confused again, but he did not tilt his head—the Winchesters were doing important research which could not be interrupted. 

“I’ve felt softer,” Sam testified finally, withdrawing his hand. 

Dean did the same. “Should’ve used more conditioner.” 

Castiel recognized the joke this time and glared. 

“My turn,” Dean announced, and indulged his earlier wish by plunging his hand into Sam’s hair. It stayed there, and Dean’s eyes closed almost against his will. His fingers petted leisurely through the thick, luxurious haze and kept on petting rhythmically. 

Sam shut his eyes, too. Having a hand in his hair was heavenly; it was one of his favorite feelings in the world. It was an intimate sensation and, symbiotically, a rare one, so to have it played with twice in a day by his brother and their adopted angel was blissful. He tried to remember the last time someone besides himself had touched it and couldn’t, if trashy drunk women at bars and villains causing pain didn’t count. He supposed it had to have been Jessica, and before that, Dean, when they were children finding comfort in one another. A part of him knew they still were. He wanted to see Dean’s face, to see if Dean was as content and relaxed by this simple therapy as he was, to see if the nostalgia was affecting him as deeply as it was affecting Sam. Somehow, he was afraid to look and accidentally break the intimate spell hovering over them—somehow, he didn’t need to see Dean to know exactly what he was thinking. 

Just then, Dean’s fingers scratched over a particularly sensitive spot on Sam’s scalp, and Sam shivered from head to toe. He could feel himself smiling. He sighed quietly, completely at peace; heartbeats later, Dean echoed the sigh. 

Castiel cleared his throat. “This is awkward.” 

Sam stared at the angel in annoyance. His annoyance increased when Dean seemed to realize the situation and returned his hand to his lap. Sam should have known it wouldn’t last forever, but he could have punted Castiel back to Heaven for interrupting regardless. 

“The votes are in, it would seem,” Castiel continued. “Angel-feather is the softest substance in the universe.” 

“And Sammy’s hair is the softest hair of either man or angel,” Dean added. He ruffled Sam’s hair casually, affectionately, curling his fingers slightly over that same sensitive spot, and Sam shivered again. In the corner of his eye, he noticed Dean smirking. He must have figured out Sam’s almost-feline touch starvation, and Sam guessed he wasn’t going to be allowed to forget it. At least it had been fun while it had lasted. 

Castiel was frowning thoughtfully at the feathers in his palm. Slowly, he lifted one and placed it against Sam’s hair, blue eyes narrowed, head tilted to the left. Both of the brothers prepared for the question they knew was about to follow. 

“What if,” Castiel muttered, peering intensely at Sam, who fidgeted anxiously under the stare, “we could combine the two?” 

Dean snapped his fingers, shockingly quick on the uptake. “And create the softest manmade substance in the universe,” he finished. 

Castiel nodded, amusingly serious. “Does anyone have any hairbands?” 

**** 

An hour later, Dean and Castiel were still working. Dean’s mouth was twisted with concentration, his green eyes narrowed, his fingers weaving, separating, and offering strands of hair for Castiel to hold. Castiel did so and presented his wrist, wrapped in black hairbands, to Dean whenever he needed a new one. Cas was also in charge of music, dutifully listening to Dean’s Educate-the-Angel Playlist, which consisted mostly of ’80s rock. He asked a lot of questions about the lyrics, which was slightly difficult since Dean had employed his mouth to hold bobby pins, and Sam answered if he knew. Dean occasionally hummed along, but he paid no more attention to the conversation or Castiel’s curiosity than that. His focused gaze never left his work unless he was reading the Internet article on the laptop Cas held up. Sam was grateful for the care taken, but he wouldn’t have minded even if his brother sucked—all the touch and attention was enough to make him purr. Dean was surprisingly adept, and Sam had to assume it was natural talent—that, or he couldn’t wait to know where Dean had gotten the practice. Sam supposed he was the sister in this scenario, after all. 

So he sat, cross-legged, smiling widely, cheeks dimpling adorably, hazel eyes shut tight to commit the moment to memory, little curls falling onto his forehead and tickling his nose, luxuriating in the touch and attention, between his older brother and their adopted angel on the queen bed, as Castiel kept on asking questions and Dean braided angel feathers into his little brother’s hair. 

Vivid white was striking against golden-brown that caught and kept the sun.


End file.
